A Not So Putrid Birthday
by mediwitch3
Summary: This is a one-shot. It's about 13 years after the island, and it follows Jack. It's Jack's birthday and he goes to a restaurant, where he meets Ralph. Read to find out. I know a lot of people say this:but this is a bad sum. May be another ch on Ralph.R R.
1. Chapter A

_**A Not so Putrid Birthday**_

A calloused hand pushed thick red bangs out of startling blue eyes. Jack sighed; it was time to get his hair cut again. Since the incident on the island, Jack had kept his hair short. Recently though, he had been busy and it had gotten out of hand. This happened from time to time, and when it did the nightmares would escalate. Walking down the street on the way to the restaurant, with the fringe in his eyes, he would have flashbacks of his hunts on the island. The nameless, faceless people would meld into a vision: Roger pointing to a rock, Ralph scampering out from under it. Ralph—whatever happened to him? Jack often stayed up late at night, wondering about him. He felt guilt and disgust for what he did to him—disgust because of the thrill, the sick excitement he felt when he thought of the hunt. He had never apologized for hunting him. Ralph must have been scarred because of the experience—because of him.

A chilling wind ruffled his hair as he walked down the busy streets of London. Reaching up, he pushed his black cap down further on his carrot-colored hair. As the fabric moved down his head, his fringe pushed lower into his eyes. His thoughts went back to Ralph and the other boys. He knew they had all gotten to America together, but he hadn't seen them since. He wondered what it would be like to see them again. What do you say to people you killed with? Or do you say anything at all? Is it just better to avoid thinking about the entire situation, if there ever is to be one? He sighed again, and kicked a random can on the side of the road.

Up ahead, he saw the sign of the restaurant and picked up his pace a bit. Pushing open the door, he wrinkled his nose at the loud chatter of the dining area. He hated people, and he rarely went to restaurants for this exact reason. Normally he ate at home, but today was his 23rd birthday and he was tired of ramen noodles and Spanish rice.

The hostess greeted him immediately.

"Good evening sir, do have a reservation?" She asked in an annoyingly perky voice.

"Yeah. Jack Merridew, for 7:00." He said gruffly. She nodded, her ponytail bouncing irritatingly.

"Right this way, please." She led him over to a booth near the back. "Here's a menu, someone will be with you in a moment," she trilled, handing him a shiny leather booklet. He took it without acknowledging her. Jack opened the menu, looking at the items on the glossy laminated page. He was halfway through looking at the meat dishes, when he heard a deep voice above him.

"Good evening sir, I'll be your server this evening."

"Tell 'em your name, dear," the annoying hostess squealed in the man's ear. He huffed.

"I'm Ralph. What can I get you to drink?" The man who had spoken looked at him expectantly. A shock of white-blond hair sat atop his head, a fringe settling lightly above his eyebrows. Familiar green eyes looked down at Jack, waiting for him to say something. Jack cleared his throat.

"Can I just have some water, please?" Jack flushed at how squeaky his voice was. This felt incredibly awkward, and he wondered if Ralph knew it was him. Ralph nodded and disappeared, coming back a moment later with a glass of water. The young man pulled out an order pad and a pencil.

"Can I take your order now, or do you need a minute?" he asked politely. Jack glanced back at the menu. "Uh, I'd like the pork chops, please. But hold the salad. And the fruit mix," Jack mumbled. Ralph looked at him oddly. "You...just want the meat?" he asked bewilderedly. Jack nodded. Ralph shrugged. "All right then." He walked away, leaving Jack sitting alone at the table on his birthday.

Six to twelve minutes passed. Jack's head shot up. He coud smell them—his pork chops were on their way! He glanced around frantically, looking for the meat that was inevitably going to be on the table in front of him. He spotted Ralph across the dining area, a silver tray held above his head as he weaved through the tables. Finally, he made his way to Jack's table, and set the meat in front of him.

Jack tore into the meat, barely remembering to use utensils. He grunted appreciatively at the scalding flesh of the pig sliding down his throat. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ralph's eyes go wide before he hurried away. Jack swallowed a hunk of the chop, and watched him go. _Well if he didn't know me before, he does now,_ he thought,_ he must think I'm the same savage that hunted him all those years ago._

Jack finished his chops in a sullen silence. _Those were some pretty putrid chops, _he thought, _I've definitely had better._ He pushed his plate away from him, and signaled Ralph, who was near a different table, for the check. Ralph came over nervously, and stopped at an arm's length from the table to give it to him. He was just about to run away, when Jack's voice stopped him. "Wait! I have something I need to say to you," Jack whisper shouted to him. Ralph stopped, wincing, and fidgeted while he waited for Jack to talk. Jack took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. So sorry. I know you're scared and disgusted by me, and you have every right to be. But please, _please_ accept my apology. What happened on that island did nothing good for my life, I mean, look at me. I'm alone on my birthday. No friends, no family. I'm lucky to have a job. Most people meet me and just hate me. I'm sorry, I don't mean to put this on you, I just needed to get this off my chest. I'm so, so sorry for what I did to you—what I put you through. I can't say enough times how sorry I am. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sor-"

"JACK! It's...okay, I guess. I mean, it's not, but if you're that sorry... I mean it was so long ago... Do you want to go someplace? It's your birthday, right? My therapist says I should face my fear, so as long as you promise not to hunt me or anything... I guess there's no harm in hanging out... right?" Ralph trailed off nervously. Jack nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! That'd be great! I mean, I promise not to do anything to you," he ended solemnly. Ralph nodded. "I'll get my jacket, it's time for me to clock out anyway." He wandered off, leaving Jack standing by the table smiling stupidly. _That wasn't such a putrid birthday after-all._


	2. Chapter B

_**A Pretty Putrid Birthday**_

A calloused hand pushed thick red bangs out of startling blue eyes. Jack sighed; it was time to get his hair cut again. Since the incident on the island, Jack had kept his hair short. Recently though, he had been busy and it had gotten out of hand. This happened from time to time, and when it did the nightmares would escalate. Walking down the street on the way to the restaurant, with the fringe in his eyes, he had flashbacks of his hunts on the island. The nameless, faceless people would meld into a vision: Roger pointing to a rock, Ralph scampering out from under it. Ralph—whatever happened to him? Jack often stayed up late at night, wondering about him. He felt guilt and disgust for what he did to him—disgust because of the thrill, the sick excitement he felt when he thought of the hunt. He had never apologized for hunting him. Ralph must have been scarred because of the experience—because of him.

A chilling wind ruffled his hair as he walked down the busy streets of London. Reaching up, he pushed his black cap down further on his carrot-colored hair. As the fabric moved down his head, his fringe pushed lower into his eyes. His thoughts went back to Ralph and the other boys. He knew they had all gotten to America together, but he hadn't seen them since. He wondered what it would be like to see them again. What do you say to people you killed with? Or do you say anything at all? Is it just better to avoid thinking about the entire situation, if there ever is to be one? He sighed again, and kicked a random can on the side of the road.

Up ahead, he saw the sign of the restaurant and picked up his pace a bit. Pushing open the door, he wrinkled his nose at the loud chatter of the dining area. He hated people, and he rarely went to restaurants for this exact reason. Normally he ate at home, but today was his 23rd birthday and he was tired of ramen noodles and Spanish rice.

The hostess greeted him immediately.

"Good evening sir, do you have a reservation?" She asked in an annoyingly perky voice.

"Yeah. Jack Merridew, for 7:00." He said gruffly. She nodded, her ponytail bouncing irritatingly.

"Right this way, please." She led him over to a booth near the back. "Here's a menu, someone will be with you in a moment," she trilled, handing him a shiny leather booklet. He took it without acknowledging her. Jack opened the menu, looking at the items on the glossy laminated page. He was halfway through looking at the meat dishes, when he heard a deep voice above him.

"Good evening sir, I'll be your server this evening."

"Tell 'em your name, sweetie," the annoying hostess squealed in the man's ear. He huffed.

"I'm Ralph. What can I get you to drink?" The man who had spoken looked at him expectantly. A shock of white-blond hair sat atop his head, a fringe settling lightly above his eyebrows. Familiar green eyes looked down at Jack, waiting for him to say something. Jack cleared his throat.

"Can I just have some water, please?" Jack flushed at how squeaky his voice was. This felt incredibly awkward, and he wondered if Ralph knew it was him. Ralph nodded and disappeared, coming back a moment later with a glass of water. The young man pulled out an order pad and a pencil.

"Can I take your order now, or do you need a minute?" he asked politely. Jack glanced back at the menu. "Uh, I'd like the pork chops, please. But hold the salad. And the fruit mix," Jack mumbled. Ralph looked at him oddly. "You...just want the meat?" he asked bewilderedly. Jack nodded. Ralph shrugged. "All right then." He walked away, leaving Jack sitting alone at the table on his birthday.

Six to twelve minutes passed. Jack's head shot up. He coud smell them—his pork chops were on their way! He glanced around frantically, looking for the meat that was inevitably going to be on the table in front of him. He spotted Ralph across the dining area, a silver tray held above his head as he weaved through the tables. Finally, he made his way to Jack's table, and set the meat in front of him.

Jack tore into the meat, barely remembering to use utensils. He grunted appreciatively as the scalding flesh of the pig slid down his throat. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ralph's eyes go wide before he hurried away. Jack swallowed a hunk of the chop, and watched him go. _Well if he didn't know me before, he does now,_ he thought,_ he must think I'm the same savage that hunted him all those years ago._

Jack finished his chops in a sullen silence. _Those were some pretty putrid chops, _he thought, _I've definitely had better._ He pushed his plate away from him, and signaled Ralph, who was near a different table, for the check. Ralph came over nervously, and stopped at an arm's length from the table to give it to him. He was just about to run away, when Jack's voice stopped him. "Wait! I have something I need to say to you," Jack whisper shouted to him. Ralph stopped, wincing, and fidgeted while he waited for Jack to talk. Jack took a deep breath.

"I'm sor-sor-," he choked on the word. It was so unfamiliar to him, and he hated it. "I'm sor-rry, erm." Ralph looked at him, eyes calculating. His voice came out in a dark whisper, the hurt expressed in the deep rasp his voice had taken on. "I don't think you are. I don't care if you are. You ruined me. I wake up in the middle of the night _screaming_, because of you and your stupid hunt-"

"You think I don't know that!" _You think I don't feel even the slightest bit of remorse! The slightest bit of guilt! It's __**killing**__ me inside. I can't do anything without it reminding me of the things I did on that island! Every time it rains I remember the storm, and the dance __**I started**__ that killed Simon. Every person with glasses reminds me of Piggy, and I feel terrible knowing that __**I**__ turned Roger into the __**monster**__ that killed him. Every crying child on the side of the street reminds me of Henry, the boy I beat for __**doing nothing!**_Jack heaved, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. _And you know the worst thing? Everything I do, and everything I don't reminds me of what I did to you, what I put you through. I __**deserve**__ everything I get. I __**deserve**__ to be alone on my birthday, I __**deserve**__ to have no friends, I __**deserve**__ to have no family, I __**deserve**__ to be haunted by __**you**__ and the __**nightmares**__ you bring. I deserve it __**all**__ and __**more**__. _He wrenched up the sleeves on his arm. "I _deserve_ this." He pointed to the thin, white scars on his wrist. "I _deserve_ this. I don't deserve your forgiveness. Just please, _please _don't pity me. I don't deserve pity, I don't _deserve_ it." Ralph looked at him, startled. "Okay. I think you should go see this guy, you're more mental than I thought you were." Ralph pulled a card out of his back pocket and handed it to Jack. Jack took it and watched Ralph walk away in silence. Jack looked at the card.

_Dr. William Golding_

_Psychology and Psychiatry_

_201 Strangers Street, London, England N26 7BY_

_Telephone:020 7232 3264_

Ralph had given him a therapist's card. _Well,_ thought Jack, _that was a pretty putrid birthday._

_**FIN**_


End file.
